In Which Will Does a Dumb Thing
by VennSync
Summary: Will has finally found something that gets under Hannibal's skin: the Food Network. Crackfic. Post S3, no spoilers.


"What are you watching?"

Will grins where Hannibal can't see, because he can hear mild disdain hiding underneath Hannibal's politely curious tone. Then he wipes the smile off his face so he can sound convincingly casual and responds, "The Food Network. Wanna come watch?"

"I will pass, but thank you." Hannibal returns to writing his ridiculous, perfect script in one of his journals and for a few moments the only sound in the room is that of Alton Brown gleefully torturing some poor chef by replacing all of his cooking utensils with various rubber ducks. Will has the volume on low, but he knows Hannibal's sharp ears will still catch the audio.

Will knows that Hannibal can move like a cat, but still jumps when a voice comes from just inches away. "What is the purpose of this show?"

"Jesus!"

"Language, Will." But Hannibal is slightly amused by Will's reaction. It's gratifying to know that even after their long acquaintance, he can still surprise. With some effort, he pulls his eyes away from Will and towards the television. Now Alton is frantically narrating the chef's attempts to stir his risotto with a rubber duck. Hannibal's lip curls with distaste. Will tries not to laugh, but Hannibal sees the way his shoulders tremble and frowns. "You did not answer my question."

"It's called 'Cutthroat Kitchen' and before you ask, no, there is no literal cutting of throats."

"Hm. I always wonder when television will finally cross that line."

"The line of killing someone on air?"

"The last frontier, as it were." Hannibal does that thing with his eyebrows that suggests he knows better than everyone and Will sighs, looking back at the screen. Now, someone is bargaining to make another chef wear oven mitts for the rest of the challenge. Hannibal watches over his shoulder without comment.

After a few minutes, Will says, "So you get the idea."

Hannibal is silent for a moment more. His eyes glint in the low light and for a moment he looks inhuman. Will looks at that face and wonders how he ever thought Hannibal was an ordinary therapist. "This is not a realistic examination of culinary skill."

Will hears the unspoken question and shrugs. "People like it. It's funny."

" _Schadenfreude_ at its finest."

"I guess so."

"Hmph." That's all before he returns to his desk, but it's more frustration than Will has ever heard from Hannibal, and horrible as the thought is, he can't let it go. Hannibal's perfect composure was disrupted by a silly television show, of all the ridiculous things. If Cutthroat Kitchen can do this, when it's actually almost watchable, the effect of worse shows might be far more amusing.

His hypothesis requires further testing.

* * *

"An entire pig?"

"Apparently, each team needs to carry one back to the truck and butcher it there, then make barbeque." Hannibal actually blinks at the screen. Just once, but the operators in the control room of Will's brain throw their headsets in the air and start a victory dance.

"And they are not wearing gloves." Is he imagining the disapproval in Hannibal's voice?

Will shrugs. "Trichinosis happens to other people, I guess."

At that particular moment one of the teams makes it back to the truck and slams the pig down on a metal countertop, probably breaking a few bones. The team leader grabs a knife and starts hacking away, and that is the moment Will hears it. A little breath out of place, followed by a sharp exhale through the nose. He carefully represses his urge to grin. "That knife is entirely unsuitable for this task." Hannibal states, his voice the picture of tranquility. His perfect control had slipped, for just a moment, but now it is back. "May I ask why you watch this? If you desire to learn to cook, I would be more than happy to teach you."

"No thank you. Y'know my dad used to say when he was half passed out on the couch that 'I'm not watchin' the game, the game's watchin' me.'" His accent had casually slipped into a deeper drawl with the memory, which was one of his quirks that Hannibal would never tire of. "So that's what this is, I guess. Not like we can do much here anyway, with both of us out of sorts." He's not letting it show, but in his mind one topic loops: _Ask me to change the channel. Go ahead. You know you waaaant tooo…_

But Hannibal doesn't say anything else. He just goes to the little galley kitchen and makes a show of washing dishes. If he doesn't crash them a little louder than necessary to drown out the TV, then Will's a fish. He allows himself a smile well out of range of Hannibal's sight and turns up the volume.

* * *

"Unacceptable."

The woman on the screen is pouring blue cheese dressing over buffalo sauce soaked meatballs, explaining about what a show stopping appetizer this is. The crowd claps and her colleagues coo over what is, essentially, an inedible mess. Hannibal is not even hiding his disgust now. "Completely unacceptable. Where did she attend culinary school? What head chef authorized her to use such unnecessary amounts of sauce?"

"I think perhaps the idea is that she never attended culinary school, and doesn't need to."

"She needs to."

Will hums in agreement. He's feeling better than the cat with the cream. He's a cat with the cream, the canary, and a new sprout of catnip.

Over the past month or so, he's been steadily escalating the level of drivel playing on the television. It's easy, really. Just turn on the tube earlier than the last time and the show is practically guaranteed to be dumber than the last. Cutthroat Kitchen is _prime time._

Now the host has shoved a sprig of cilantro on the top of the gloopy meatballs and everyone is oohing and aahing over how elegant it looks. Hannibal's teeth clench and Will can see it in the way his jaw jumps. "Garnish without purpose is like glitter on a whore. It gets everywhere and adds nothing to the main appeal."

"Harsh, much? She's trying."

"'Trying' is for home cooks, newly wed. This woman should not be in a kitchen, except maybe as the main dish." His face turns vaguely contemplative and Will touches his arm to get his attention. Their eyes meet for a brief moment and Will can see the fury buried just beneath the surface.

"You will not kill her." He says, trying to sound stern through the shudder that expression gave him. Hannibal looks back at the television at the new segment titled "The World's Best Pizza!" and says nothing.

Halfway through the segment, his fingers twitch as if about to clench. "That is not how you make dough." The extra pauses between words are barely there, and the word 'dough' is only very slightly stressed, but it's still obvious that for some reason this host gets particularly under Hannibal's skin.

Somehow Will's not enjoying it as much as he thought he would, even though this is the reaction he's wanted. He can't remember the exact day Hannibal started sitting and watching with him, but he wants their little pastime to continue. If Hannibal notices that he's losing his famous control, he'll withdraw faster than a startled meerkat and Will won't ever see that part of him again. He crosses his fingers where Hannibal can't see and hopes the show gets better.

It doesn't. After the host commits the terrible sin of using jarred sauce (Hannibal's fingers do curl at this, where they're resting on the couch cushion), she moves on to dessert and that is where Hannibal loses it completely. She's microwaving the marshmallows and butter when he stands up and growls, "This is not _cooking,_ this is _assembly!"_ It's the most unplanned emotion Will's ever heard from him, and he realizes it in the exact same moment that Will does. But he doesn't run, like Will feared. Instead, he stares at Will with eyes so dark they look black and asks, "Well?"

"Well?" Will repeats, voice a quiet creak. He's not so sure that this was such a good idea anymore.

"Are you satisfied? Can we finally cease this pointless exercise?"

"Huh?"

"Will, don't insult my intellect or yours, I beg of you." Damn. How long has he known? How does he _do_ that?

"I just… I thought it would be…" He swallows back the sudden dryness in his throat, before finishing, lamely, "funny."

"And was it? Was _I_?"

"A little." Will admits, mostly because he's pretty sure Hannibal can smell lies. The television host continues to blithely narrate her destruction of the homemade rice crispy treat, explaining how her version is better because of reduced sugar marshmallows and yogurt-based butter. Will clicks it off, not making eye contact. That reminds him of the first months of their relationship, when he would never meet Hannibal's eyes if he could help it. This is officially a disaster.

Hannibal goes to the closet and pulls out a jacket. "I told you, you can't kill her!" Will says, a bit frantic at the thought of what he may have unleashed.

"I am not going to kill her, Will." Hannibal stands at the door and Will can hear the smile in his voice. He forces himself to breathe. Hannibal doesn't lie about his targets.

"Then where are you going?"

"Out." And he's gone. Fantastic.

He's gone for only an hour and they speak no more of it. Will withdraws and starts reading some of Hannibal's library, the few precious volumes he'd managed to recover from used bookstores. Every night, he goes out and steals the neighbor's newspaper out of their recycling bin. He's never seen, and he likes staying updated on current events.

One week after Hannibal storms out, the headlines read "Food Network CEO dead of Food Poisoning!" Will brings the newspaper to Hannibal and lays it on the desk, like a cat with a particularly gruesome offering. There has been no TV on in the hideout since the incident and Hannibal hasn't left again except to get supplies, but true coincidences are never this coincidental. He doesn't speak, because he knows he doesn't have to.

"The press loves a good bit of irony." Hannibal states, stone-faced.

"How in the nine hells did you pull this off?"

"I'm sure I don't know to what you are referring, William."

"Uh-huh. And you _don't_ call me William only when you're flagrantly lying. I believe you." The sarcasm makes his tongue feel thick in his mouth. "I'm actually genuinely goddamn curious here, can you teleport?"

"Language, Will." Hannibal sighs, picking up the newspaper. His inflection doesn't change as he says, "Why don't you tell me."

Will rocks back on his heels and thinks about it for a moment. He doesn't need the pendulum with Hannibal; he sinks easily into the Chesapeake Ripper's mind by this point. The iron grip of Hannibal's control makes him straighten his posture unconsciously, and his accent changes slightly as he muses aloud, "I am angry, and have been for a while. I knew daytime TV was insipid and an insult to culture, but extended exposure has led to my disgust with those responsible for this drivel." He closes his eyes and can see Hannibal's mind palace, even though he still doesn't have all the keys. The space is beautiful and cold and so goddamn empty. "I will remove them from this Earth, and if others get the idea to continue their folly, I will remove them too. Let it become cursed. But… I cannot risk my safety. Distasteful as it is, I will have to call in a favor. This is not my design, but we do as needs must."

He opened his eyes to find Hannibal staring at him, a small smile almost showing at the corners of his eyes. "Correct as always, dear Will."

"You hired someone to poison them."

"It will be untraceable. Particularly as it is, as you say, "not my design.""

Will rolls his eyes at how petulant Hannibal sounds, at least, for him. "Sorry you couldn't do it in person and make stew out of her or whatever."

"Hmm… a stew would never do." Hannibal cracked his first real smile of the week, and used to it as he was, Will still felt a shiver grip his spine. "I would have turned her into buffalo meatballs with bleu cheese sauce, then delivered her to the offices with my regards."


End file.
